Sleepless City, a Rico Macias story
by Cabbie Esq
Summary: Offshoot Novella of the Caged Series: Rico Macias, the lover of Todd Manning, is now on his own in New York City. How will he survive without his love, Blanco, in this new world that was taken from him when he was so young? Who will he become? Original Character, references to the OLTL world (esp. Todd Manning and Téa Delgado), drama, adult graphic sexual/violent situations
1. Chapter 1

_Note from Author: This is for Edgefire who needs a Rico story. :) There is another novel I am beginning over at fiction press dot com (Red City) published under username CabbieEsq if you want more of Rico's adventures (takes place about a year after the bombing)._

**Sleepless City, a Rico Macias Story**

**Chapter 1**

Rico Macias tilted his head, long dark hair falling into his face he didn't bother adjusting. He took in the massive sprawl of lights he knew to be New York City. He thought of a snow globe he once had, tall buildings of NYC, a treasure he and his brothers would admire and question in their shared Havana bedroom. He had no idea how they came to have such a thing. He should be in awe at seeing the city in person, should be a little excited, or anxious, or something. He felt little of anything though, settling back and staring at the buttons overhead. He fussed with the air vent, opening it so a blast of empty air hit his face.

The plane dipped lower and lower and he wondered what it would feel like when they landed. He'd never flown before. At least, not in his accessible memory.

"You okay?"

He heard the words, the gentle voice, the maddeningly considerate tone. He could make out the curly sandy-blond hair in his willing peripheral vision, the glint of silver-rimmed glasses. He shrugged. What did that mean…to be _okay_? He used to have a sense of that, being _okay_.

Not anymore.

Next to him sat Kenneth McNair, an FBI agent sent with him, to escort him from Havana, Cuba, the only place Rico knew as _home_. Kenneth knew Rico's story, a little of it, enough that Kenneth treated him carefully. He was scheduled to meet his real family. His mother, actually. Just her, for now. His real name was different than what he knew. What he _thought_ he knew.

_Enrico Juan Diaz. _

Who was… _that_? Who would he have been? With that name.

"Do you need more time, before meeting your mother?"

"_No, esta bien._"

"Her name is Patricia… and your father is Samuel."

"Sah-m-WEL," Rico corrected. "Pah-TREE-syah."

"Right, Spanish pronunciations. Sorry. You have an older brother, Lucas, and he has a young daughter, Mia."

He couldn't hear anymore. His entire life had been stolen from him. He learned he'd been abducted when he was three years old from a park just a block away from where he lived with his parents in New York City. He learned that the family who raised him in Havana was of no relation. They kept him for the very purpose of grooming him to serve Manuel Caro… which he had done, done well, from age six until he was too old for Manuel's taste, near 14.

But he found love in a beach house, most unexpectedly, and that love led to this flight. Except that love died in a violent explosion, his retribution against those who wronged so many.

_El Diablo Blanco._

_Todd Manning. _

_The Mad King of the Mambo Kings, a Cuban-American gang._

Of course, _Blanco _made sure to rip Rico's heart out first before he embraced his destiny, before he awarded himself retribution. He kept hearing the last words spoken to him by his love, words that burned right to his core.

_Are you healed? Are you better? Are you sated? You took him out, you saved the fuckin' world, but she fuckin' paid for that didn't she, for you to have his heart in your mouth, for you to suck him dry one… last… time. Get the fuck away from me. You killed her. _

Where was he when he heard his lover had died, that _Blanco_ was gone forever_? _In Manuel Caro's apartment—_beautiful boy, beautiful noise, my god how you fuck, you are a swan on a glass pond, a dancer on a world stage_—swearing up and down that they found _Blanco's _wife, Téa there, lying, not able to tell them the truth. The Havana police had been talking amongst themselves without a thought of Rico who was on the couch as their comrades turned the place upside down because he was nothing but a street whore.

_Positive identification. Todd Manning. Just by his boots. Imagine! He took his shoes off then blew the place up! Took 12 or 13 others with him. Typical American._

Laughter.

Rico couldn't breathe. _No, no, no, _he had cried into his hands. He knew _Blanco _wanted retribution, that he didn't plan on surviving it, but he and Téa had derailed that intention, had loved him until he was full and sure and wanting nothing but home again. He had wanted to live and love…

Rico had wanted to throw up on that couch. Then he wanted to die with _Blanco, _for _Blanco. _Because maybe it _was_ his fault that Téa had died although she didn't actually die. Didn't matter though. _Blanco _walked out of that hospital thinking she died, blaming Rico for it, walked out hopeless, raging, and in the darkness of that Havana night decided to follow through with his plan of retribution and blow up thirteen pedophiles, adding himself to the mix.

_No, no, please no...no, no, no..._

A captain admonished the thoughtless police officers when he noticed how upset Rico was.

_No evidence this… Todd Manning...was there. Stop spreading rumors. _

_But—_

_Another American died today, too. Media will go crazy for a day or so. Drug overdose. Todd Manning. _

_Wait—_

_You heard me. Todd Manning was not in the bombing. _

Oh so that was how it was going to go. Cuba was going to play with the story the same way they played with the killing of Yanko, his circus bear. It didn't matter. _El Diablo Blanco, _Todd Manning, was dead just the same no matter how the Cuban government played it.

_Mí león._

_Blanco. _

_Mí amor. _

"Hey, hey…"

Rico cried again, now, on the plane about to land, cried at the reality of all that had happened and was about to happen. He trembled with the physical effort to stop a grief-soaked meltdown and sure it worked somewhat but the tears, they kept coming. A warm hand on his arm squeezed and then the hand caressed the back of his head and that soft voice of Kenneth came at him, trying to soothe him but soothing was an impossible task.

"I'm so sorry, so so sorry," Kenneth murmured.

_Sorry. The worst fucking word, yeah, because it means nothing, can do nothing. It's total and absolute bullshit. I fucking hate the sound of it, mari. _

Rico couldn't be soothed because he wept from a wound that would never heal because there was no ingress to reach it. There were no edges to pull together, no way to sew stitches. It lived in the center of him, an edge-less hole so wide, so vast, an expanse of emptiness that would only spread, consuming every bit of him until he would disappear entirely.

His love, his only love, the only love he had ever consciously known in his entire life… was gone.

The plane bumped and they were speeding down the black runway as the brakes squealed to slow down, to stop. He was in New York City, a strange and foreign land, a home he did not know. Alone. Strangers that called themselves family waited for him. He grabbed hold of Kenneth with his night-sky eyes and the man's face fell with empathy, concern. A decision in his blue-sky eyes.

"Hey," he said, "I won't leave your side. Not for a minute. They'll have to tear me away from you."

Kenneth had no reason to make such an offer, such a grand promise, but in some strange way, it comforted Rico. See, Kenneth had known Todd Manning in an American prison and that meant the smallest bit of _Blanco _then lived inside Kenneth.

It was all Rico had left of love.

"Okay," he said, his voice so choked, hardly anything could be heard over the rustle of departing passengers.

_Okay._

**To be continued...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The baggage claim area was packed and Kenneth pulled his charge, Rico, through the crowd to stand nearer to where the luggage was rolling out, just before it hit the carousel. Kenneth found it hard to look away from Rico but he had to. It wasn't his beauty, though that was a powerful draw, but his deer-in-the-headlights gaze at everything. It was the grief as well, the just-about-to-burst-into-tears look in his eyes.

_My god,_ Ken thought, _how grossly unfair this all is. _

Ken felt compelled to hold Rico close to him, to lead him, to guide him, to constantly ask if he was okay even though it was a bothersome thing because seriously, how could he be okay? Not only had he lost his lover in a horrible way, the imaginings of such a death would be beyond anyone's experience, but his whole life was being upended, twisted inside out, everything he knew was now untrue. If not for a few minutes when he was a toddler, a few minutes where his mother turned away from him… he would not be the survivor he now was.

The term made him stop his thoughts midway.

_A survivor. _

The term was used often in place of _victim. _Jedediah had told Ken that Todd had a horror-house childhood, sexually and physically abused by an adoptive father. He would have been called a survivor. But he didn't _survive. _And what happened to him paled in comparison to what happened to Rico. He hoped he was...a survivor.

Rico only had the one bag. Kenneth had several. He quickly found his own, two hefty suitcases with red stripes down the centers, easily spotted in the line of others.

"What color is yours?"

When Rico didn't answer, eyes focused on the seemingly endless number of suitcases and bags and baby seats passing him by, Ken gently shook his arm, getting his attention. Dark sad eyes caught his. Ken smiled and repeated the question.

Rico sighed and shrugged, the smallest smile playing on his lips, "Black. Like all the others."

They finally got his duffle bag and Ken had to resist showing shock at how light it was. Another agent had been carrying it back in Havana and had checked it for them, so Ken hadn't realized just how few belongings Rico had claimed. A whole life… weighing less than twenty pounds.

The two ambled their way outside, the night cool. Kenneth flagged a taxi and the car stopped, the driver getting out and shoving Ken's luggage in the trunk, Rico keeping his duffle bag with him. The two men sat in back and Ken smiled at Rico, asked again if he was okay, Rico not answering anymore as they headed into the city.

When they got to the hotel room, a modest hotel in Manhattan to be close to the FBI offices, Rico walked in the door and without a lot of fanfare, collapsed on the bed, face down, a hand on the duffle. In minutes he was sleeping, absolutely exhausted. The bombing had taken place only… Ken looked at his watch and it read _06:00 a.m._ Surreal. It had been 19 hours since the bomb went off.

As soon as the police agencies got in gear, Rico got interrogated about Téa, dragged to the apartment where he said he and Todd found her, and asked to explain the how and why. There, in that small apartment, the gruff Benicio Juarez pulled Kenneth aside.

"Stay with him," Benicio said. "I don't believe him about Téa being found here. Maybe you can get the truth out of him."

So Ken took up the business of staying with Rico. He lost track of Jedediah and Rolon at that time, the men having the soul-crushing job of identifying Todd's body. A recovering Téa Delgado and the baby Esperanza would become their focus after that, and then getting everyone home. Ken figured that was when the full force of Todd's death would hit them and hit them hard.

Which left Rico.

Only Raquel was able to say goodbye. She had run from the hospital when she heard Rico was leaving, ran to Sylvia's place where he was packing clothes. Kenneth accompanied him. She ran into them right at the door, her face drawn.

They spoke in Spanish, so Kenneth didn't understand much. Only, a person didn't have to know the language to know that words were inadequate, didn't have to know words to read the high emotion and gather the meaning of what was most likely a lifelong parting, a forever parting. The silver-haired _doctora _with the blade at her waist cried and so did he and she kept petting his black long hair and saying, "_Mí chiquito," _and he was only looking in her eyes and it sounded like promises he was making and then they just hugged in silence.

_Words were inadequate._

"Is there anyone else you need to say goodbye to?" Ken had asked.

"No."

They then had returned to the downtown Havana hotel and Kenneth packed. His computer stuff was left to the FBI agents. The two men then sat in the dining room, ostensibly to eat dinner but neither could. It was near eight o'clock when the paperwork arrived for Rico's departure, a deportation really.

The administration of his return to the United States had been quick because the week previous, Benicio and Kenneth got an emergency hearing before a Cuban ministry judge to prove that Rico was an American citizen. Rico didn't attend since it was mainly a governmental matter, since Cuba was anxious to return Rico as soon as the FBI began squawking about _sex trafficking_. The Cuban government reps had no idea he would only be the first in a tidal wave of stolen children.

It was a matter of pictures.

The Americans provided the baby pictures of the missing boy up to age three, Ken provided the pictures from the films from age six to about fourteen… and the Macias family provided pictures from about sixteen on up (the "mother" had no idea at that time what was coming to her once her role in the trafficking would become clear).

Agonizingly, dramatically, Benicio Juarez placed the pictures in front of the Cuban ministry judge in chronological order. _Clear and unambiguous. _That missing smiling three-year-old American toddler named _Enrico Juan Diaz_ with the dreamy dark eyes had become 26-year-old Cuban local _Rico Macias_, dreamy dark eyes the same, the smile though… distinctly gone.

When the judge saw the story in front of him, in those pictures, he bent his head and pinched the bridge of his nose and just sighed for a whole five minutes. Speechless. Tearful. He apologized personally to Benicio Juarez who stood for Rico, saying he was ashamed that these terrible things could happen in his country, that _Enrico_ could be lost for so long.

After the paperwork came through, it was a quick run to the airport for a red-eye out of Havana to New York City. Rico seemed to walk in a fog the entire time. The fog still had not lifted.

Kenneth washed and brushed his teeth and ordered breakfast. He sat quietly as the sun rose and watched Rico sleep fitfully but deeply. He was on his side, long legs pulled up, hands up by his face, the black jeans snug, the purple hoodie over a tan-colored tee-shirt loose and comfortable-looking. He still wore his boots, soft leather black boots. Kenneth wanted to take the boots off but he didn't want to touch him.

He remembered all too well Todd and his mad rules on touching him while he slept. One intrusion and the intruder paid in pain, whether it was a hard punch to the head or a kick in the gut. He didn't know if Rico was the same.

But it didn't matter, the bigger point was that he was too deep in sleep to give any kind of consent. And this man… deserved every opportunity to give that consent. He had a right to not be touched without being asked.

After making sure that the drapes were closed enough to keep the sun out, after he ate as much of the breakfast as he needed, Kenneth then lay on his bed across from Rico, fully dressed just like Rico, and for the first time since the awful day before, began to really think about Todd being dead.

His old friend and tormentor…Todd Manning... was gone in a flash of fire and ash, creating a massive governmental mess, a huge whole in the lives of so many, and a real mystery as to why he stayed in that house to die. If anyone had something to live for, it was Manning.

Though in truth, he never seemed able to appreciate that.

It was in that moment he realized that taking care of Rico, who seemed more alone than ever, was the least Kenneth could do for the man who saved his life in prison. If Todd could no longer offer protection to Rico, Kenneth could.

Even if Benicio Juarez wanted much more from Kenneth's connection to Rico than learning about where they found Téa. There was an obvious related question that everyone ignored all day, that never got pushed more specifically. In Benicio's words…

…_What the fuck happened to Manuel Caro? Where did that motherfucker disappear to? _

**To be continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Rico sat up, confused, unsure of where he was. Darkness had come, thick and violent, and _Blanco _wanted to die, believing in an inevitable death. They had finally fucked, _I love you, _yes, yes, _lemme see you come_, and he wasn't afraid of it anymore, _I will say that now, _so he used all of himself, forceful, filling, every inch of him the whole of him—

"_Mí león?"_

As soon as the words rolled off his tongue, he remembered. New York City. Ah, right, right. _You killed her, get the fuck away from me. _Right. _Manning is gone, Macias. So sorry._ He looked through the hazy black and saw an empty bed. He guessed it was after seven maybe. He slept all day. Kenneth was probably picking up food. It made sense. It was possible.

He leaned over and pushed buttons but couldn't figure out how to turn on the lamp. He got off the bed and went to the bathroom. Flipped on the light there. Light now leaked into the room. He was definitely alone. He needed to piss and so did. Had a flash of _Blanco _worried that he'd be pissing blood after the beating by his brothers.

Not his brothers after all. Two strangers who died later in an orgy of revenge, the killers thinking they avenged MK-connected Yanko, but _that _double killing was in fact an act of love that wouldn't have happened had _Blanco _not asked…

_What are their names?_

His duffle bag was on the bed and he unzipped it, pulling out his blue scarf that _Blanco _had hidden from him. Touched the silk and pressed it to his cheek. He almost left it behind.

When he had gotten to Sylvia's to pack, after the horror of losing Téa, after _Blanco _had run, after the FBI and Havana PD's interrogations, _after, after, _he had climbed the stairs and stood looking into the room he and _Blanco _had shared, the room where he was shot, the room from where Téa was taken. On the bed lay a pile of silk shirts, belts, and his blue scarf. He immediately knew _Blanco _had gathered everything he thought Rico would use to choke himself the way he liked. Must have put them somewhere… and either Sylvia or Raquel had returned them.

_Blanco_ worked so hard to keep Rico alive. And worked equally as hard to die.

Sitting with knees up, back against the pillows, the way _Blanco _liked to sit on any bed, he placed the scarf on the back of his neck and crossed the ends over each other. He curled them into each of his fists… and then pulled. Tight, tighter. Kept pulling until the room began to darken further, the edges of his world blackening, closing in, his eyes pressured, feeling like they were pushing out, knowing it he kept it up blood vessels would burst and red would flood the white. And maybe then he'd lose all awareness.

He stopped pulling and held the ends to his face as tears fell.

_After...after..._

He wrapped the scarf once more around his neck and lay down again. Cuddling the blue. He did not know there could be an _after. _His whole life had been a _now. _

He remembered meeting Téa that first time _en la paladar. _He knew who she was the moment she sat down. He couldn't even say how he knew. Maybe her American-ness. Maybe her guts at sitting with a whore out in the open. Maybe he felt _Blanco's _soul pouring through her, draping her like paint. When he used the scarf later in her hotel bathroom, when he walked into the room, he'd completely forgotten that the scarf left marks on his skin. She pointed it out.

_Does he know you choke yourself… with that scarf?_

He'd been stunned. She was so intuitive, so smart. No wonder _Blanco _loved her. He grew to love her, too. Loved everything about her even though it made him jealous. He could never be her. He could never have _Blanco _the way she had him.

He heard the door click and jerk open, and he popped up, startled.

"Oh hey, sorry. You're awake though. That's good."

The door hissed then slammed shut, making a calamitous noise that Rico jumped at. Kenneth carried a big paper bag and he passed Rico to dump it on the small table by the window. He unloaded sandwiches, little bags of something, bottles of soda. And beer. He immediately uncapped the beers. Walked to the bed. He stood over the slightly huddled Rico, seeing dark eyes looking back up at him.

Kenneth sighed at the heaviness in them, at that same haunted gaze he'd seen on those horrible films. It took a tremendous effort to not hold him, to resist comforting him in a physical way. He did inspire that. And yet, the idea of touching him in any way seemed like such another taking.

Kenneth stammered instead, "I… uh...know there's not a lot I can say to help right now. You got a hard road ahead."

Rico took the beer after some moments of studying the scarf, sitting back against the pillows again. An American beer, of course. Kenneth lounged on the other bed while Rico sipped who then made an approving face before drinking more. Chugged it a little.

"_Gracias,_" he said softly.

"Hungry?"

A shrug.

"You gotta eat. I sound like my grandmother but… you gotta keep up your strength."

Rico picked at the label, scratching at it. "Is there news on the bomb?"

"Um… nothing concrete… it's chaotic. It's all over the American news. No mention of Manning."

_Manning. _

The unintentional casual drop of his name stabbed Rico in the gut. He closed his eyes and tilted the beer, drinking the rest of it. He wanted to ask about Téa. He couldn't bear another casual drop though. He knew enough. That she survived, that the little one might not. Too soon a delivery.

No, he couldn't ask.

He got up and went to the pile of food. He wasn't hungry at all but he picked a sandwich anyway to keep moving, like a shark.

"Roast beef," he read. "A _deli? _For delicious?"

Kenneth laughed, "No, no… that's funny. It's short for 'delicatessen,' a restaurant of sorts specializing in meats and cheeses. New York is famous for their delis. I thought you'd like to try it."

Rico hadn't laughed and Kenneth felt stupid and helpless. He watched Rico carefully unwrap the sandwich and take a bite, chewing slowly. He swallowed and raised his eyes. Nodded.

"Very nice," he said. "I like deli."

Kenneth smiled and got up, picking the turkey sandwich. They both sat at the table and ate. Kenneth was starving so finished his but Rico only managed a quarter of the whole thing. He took another beer. Made short work of it.

"You are… kind… to help me. I feel…" He closed his eyes as if searching for words, then seemed to give up. Took another route. "I meet my mother tomorrow?"

"Only if you want. You'll have an interview with an FBI agent. They'll want a statement. As much as you can offer. Everything is up to you. You can say no to anything. Understand?"

"Yes."

"What are you thinking?"

Rico fiddled with the beer bottle, the condensation, spreading the moisture on the green glass. He didn't look at Kenneth. After a minute, he said, "I do not know what to say to her." He spoke the words with barely a voice.

Kenneth took a swig, and put the bottle down. "Just go with whatever comes out. There are no rules here. I've been at other reunions before. Parents and children separated for a long time. The ones that went well were those where nobody had any expectations."

He sort of nodded and smiled, once again feeling generally useless. Rico didn't respond.

"Want to go out? Take a walk?"

For the first time, Rico looked up and there was the smallest bit of life in his eyes.

* * *

One block and Rico clung to Kenneth like a drowning sailor. The crowds overwhelmed him, the looming buildings and endless streets and speeding cars and the city noise. They walked three or four blocks in downtown Manhattan and finally had to duck into a Starbucks, an actual oasis in the madness.

They drank coffee at a corner table, just a couple of Americano-style, grande size, true blue "welcome to the U.S." coffees. Rico eyed the customers, their laughing together, one couple bickering, the purchases, the line, the clothing, the shoes of everyone who walked past.

Then the faces. He watched like a proverbial hawk. Brows knitted, eyes intense and full of intensity. He was so rapt that Kenneth just knew there would be no talking. On occasion he sipped the coffee, even after it grew cold.

When they returned to the hotel, Rico silent the entire way, walking only inches from Kenneth, he immediately went to his duffle and pulled out a journal of some sort and pencils. He plopped himself on the bed and, to the surprise of Kenneth, began drawing.

He was quiet and focused and Kenneth could only sit at the table and watch. He drank more beer and soon became engaged in a book he'd brought along for just these quiet times.

When two in the morning arrived, Kenneth readied himself for sleep, brushing teeth, shedding clothes, and climbing onto his bed to scroll through whatnot on his phone. Rico soon seemed to finish his work, stretched with a soft delicate grunt, and left to shower. When the bathroom door shut, Kenneth tiredly got up to look at the drawing.

It was of a woman they'd seen, homeless probably. She'd been sitting at a table with a small cup of coffee, stuffed plastic bags at her feet, face gaunt, and eyes red with exhaustion. Rico captured her perfectly, beautifully. The details made a viewer feel her undefined but very real struggles. You knew by the look on her face she had history, and felt, well, hopeless.

Except he didn't end the portrait with her. He continued outwards to show the irony of her sitting in a Starbucks cafe, one of the most powerful and wealthiest companies worldwide. Glittering Starbucks trade dress framed her, surrounded her and her emptiness, while the "Starbucks" name at the top dripped coffee that could have been blood.

In a few hours, Rico caught an American truth. An ugly fact of life all its citizens take for granted and hardly question. The slap of wealth right up against the husk of poverty. Like the sun and moon, like sand and sea.

Rico Macias was an artist. And a goddamn social commentator, too. Kenneth smiled.

Okay… game on, America.

**To be continued...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 **

The Manhattan building that housed FBI offices boasted over 40 stories of concrete and glass, shadowing the people-lined streets. The agency was accompanied by two courthouses, the IRS, Department of Health, and other similarly looming government buildings. The morning had been quiet, Rico hardly saying two words, seeming to not have the will to speak. He ignored questions. Just eyed Kenneth, blinking, brows furrowed, then continuing to do whatever he was doing.

Breakfast was equally as silent. They took a cab to the offices and now stood outside looking up. The day already sweltered, causing them to sweat in a way where the skin is never dry.

"If you don't want to see your mother today, we can postpone."

Rico shrugged. He stood at the circling cemented foundation of the famous art installation called _Manhattan Sentinels _that consisted of three totemic sculptures, tall, stark, in the weather-abused brown and black of cast-iron. A fourth sculpture was on the other end of the plaza. He stood as still as the sculptures, his features as hard. The morning light clarified every line and curve of his face, showing an opposing fragility. How easy the muscles would crumple in tears or laughter or ecstasy. So unlike the sentinels.

Kenneth gently rested a hand on Rico's arm.

"Are you… okay?"

After a moment, Rico said, "I imagine a film and in the film, everything changes and moves, speeding, and these…" His hand waved at the sculptures. "These stay. Unmoving. Untouched. Unaffected. Sculptures like this… the plaque says these are about _civic pride_."

He chuckled, a muted laugh that was empty of humor. "Does any government have something to be proud of?"

"Well… civic kind of refers to the people that run the government, that the government can help. Just people, like us. All the people, all over."

"Civic… pride." He turned, softening when he landed on Kenneth. "Of course."

"Are you ready?"

"Agents first?"

"Yeah. They want you to share what you know, about Manuel, the Macias family… everything. Anything. I'll stay with you."

_Everything. _

Rico stayed on Kenneth, dark brown eyes worried, afraid, face drawn. He would never tell… _everything. _

"Okay."

"Your mother is to arrive at noon. The agents are limiting the time with you to two hours. It's all about you. They know…"

The words were hard to say aloud. Kenneth finally pulled his hand back. He found he wanted to hold Rico. An instinct. But he hated to do it as well. Too much touching had already happened.

"If I ever… reach for you and you don't want me to do that," Kenneth blurted, "Just say… _enough_. I'll stop right away. I always want to comfort people."

Rico smiled a small sad smile. "_Blanco _hated a touch… he did not ask for."

A rush of memory flowed over Kenneth. He let his eyes close a moment too long. A sigh then a laugh. "Well, truer words were never spoken. He fucking hated if a person touched him without asking first. He'd let that person..._know…_too, just how much he hated it."

Rico laughed a little more. His eyes though shined with unshed tears. In almost a whisper, he said, "But once he said yes, _tócame, _touch me, there was not enough touching you could give him."

The two understood, and their shared experiences with the same man, unsaid, unrevealed, showed in their expressions. They knew him.

"Yeah."

"He and I… are not the same, Kenneth. I am not bothered by your _touching_."

"Okay."

They left the sentinels behind them, resolute, permanent, in their steadfast watch over the plaza, and entered the federal building.

* * *

The conference room spoke to nothing Rico knew in his life. The table was a rich mahogany wood that had room for ten people. The chairs were a practical leather but they were an extravagance to Rico. He'd never sat on anything so nice. The wall was nothing but windows showing the vast reach of New York City. A mind-boggling view that gave Rico sweaty palms.

He felt like the homeless woman. Dirty, crazy, his lone duffle bag and its pathetic treasures, the only possession he owned. He wished he'd worn his scarf. Even his clothes felt lowly. He had always been… _appreciated… _as a whore. He was special, kept aside, abused less than the others. And that had given him a kind of confidence.

Today, though, he was a victim. A poor immigrant, a refugee. He had no home anymore.

An agent, Penelope Clarke, sat next to Rico. They'd spent an hour talking about the last years of his life, the prostitution, working at the brothel. His life with his mother… no, his kidnapper who went by _mamá. _He told all he could. Their address, phone number, the names of all the children she had taken care of.

"When did you meet Manuel Caro."

"I believe I always knew him. Because when I went to stay with him, I was not afraid."

"So officially how old?"

"I left my mother to stay with him when I was five. He came to our house and made me pack a suitcase. And I left with him in a car. I had not been in a car before."

He felt a twitch in his eye and he rubbed it and still it felt twitchy. He glanced at his hands. A strange tide of coldness rolled over him and he uncurled his fingers. And curled them again. Did it again. He'd told the story before to Kenneth, in Raquel's kitchen.

He heard himself telling it again. The first time Manuel raped him. The repeated lessons on how to get fucked right. How to serve a client. How to smile. How to laugh. How to dance. The lessons on… love. How to not cry.

"I'm sorry," the agent interrupted. "Did you say all this took place when you were five?"

"Yes. I started work as a prostitute when I was six. My birthday."

She wrote notes, having to flip back. "Thank you," she said, her voice calm and professional. Kenneth was next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Squeezing it. Rico reached for it, across his chest, held Kenneth's hand at his shoulder. Questions came and Rico told more. The customers. All men. All nationalities. All in Havana. All by age eight.

"We have a record of you…we believe this is you." She had a file and pulled out a picture. "Is this... _you_?"

Rico looked at a 5x7 grainy shot. A young kid gazed back at him. A child. So so young. Black and gray backdrop. Mainly his face. Bare shoulders. Longish straight hair brushed those bare shoulders. Rounded eyes on the photographer.

_He's so afraid because he knows what's coming. Too beautiful to kill._

Kenneth squeezed his shoulder. Rico heard his own breathing. His heartbeat. The noise he made when he swallowed. The picture was from one of the films. _The films._ He knew it because in the corner of the photo was an art deco wall light he recognized from a house Manuel had secured.

_My beautiful boy. _

The agent had red hair and she pulled it back into a pony tale. She wore a suit, a fine dusty blue suit and her blouse was sheer and a necklace glistened there. A chain. Silver. He touched the base of his throat. His saint, _Santo Pancracio_, was gone. _Blanco _had it now.

Somewhere.

_It is so soft, yes? It feels so good, yes? You are like a swan. _

"Will we have the deli for lunch?"

He knew tears rolled down his face into his mouth. He tasted them. He heard the cracking in his voice. He kept his eyes on Kenneth.

"Hell yeah, there's even a place called Civic Deli just a block over." Kenneth smiled and wiped the tears off Rico's face. "Roast beef?"

"Yes."

"You didn't eat the potato chips. Gotta try those. Can't be an American without knowing the _delicious_ Lays Potato Chips."

Rico trembled only now. Incredible that he'd told his story to this point so impassionately, unmoved at the horror. That paled in comparison to the _films. _This agent had no idea what was coming. The films were top secret FBI shit, that only Rico was to share.

That he was the sole surviving co-star of those _films_.

Penelope did not push for more and pulled back the photo, busying herself with notes. He had earlier positively identified a picture of Caro. The story Rico was telling was already beyond anything she had heard before, nor any of the agents observing through the one-way mirrors along the edge of the room. Once the entire tale would be told over the next few months, nobody listening, or reading the transcripts or watching the recordings, would walk away unscathed.

Over Rico, Kenneth glanced at Penelope. The interview was over for today. She nodded, her lips tightening. A look Rico did not see.

"This was hard," Kenneth said, moving dark strands of hair off Rico's face. Tucking some away behind his ear. His smile was gentle and assuring. "And you were amazing. Your mother is here. She knows you might not be ready today. We can go eat instead or visit a museum… see some art… you like art?"

Those tears kept rolling, like drops of oil, down, down. And Kenneth kept wiping and kept smiling and nodding.

"Let's see her tomorrow, Macias. What do you think?

He didn't know that he was crying, too, until Rico put his arms around his neck and said, "It is okay," warming Kenneth's ear. "I did not mind the touching after a while. It is okay."

* * *

From behind the glass, Benicio Juarez, seethed. Five agents had been assembled to wrap up the Havana trafficking investigation which was quickly becoming a history-making event thanks to the information Manning had sent, the work Kenneth had produced, and now Rico's testimony.

Cuba was being difficult to say the least.

One of the agents commented, "What do we do with Macias? He's got incredible information. I don't want him disappearing."

"Lock everything up on him. Every fuckin' file gets marked red. Get surveillance on him, and protection. Get every goddamn missing kid on those films and pictures into an album for him to identify."

"Psych?"

"Yeah. That's a hell of a thing that's happened to him."

The other agents looked at Benicio.

"What about Caro? He's gone missing too."

"You all hear me now. I won't rest until that sick bastard chokes on his own fucking cock. By my goddamn hand."

**To be continued...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Benicio Juarez had no intention of letting Rico disappear. He had too much knowledge, and carried far too many secrets. The husky man with the gray-tinged hair and casual black slacks with the Hawaiian shirt walked into the conference room, interrupting a low, gentle-sounding lecture by Kenneth to a puppy-dog-eyed Rico. It appeared they were getting ready to leave.

"Gentlemen," Juarez said. "Just a moment of your time, please, and then you can be on your way."

Rico recognized him of course, from the interrogation about Téa's kidnapping, the hospital, from a conversation about his true parentage and birth, and from the room in Sylvia's house… after the killing of Yanko by his brothers and the ensuing beating.

_El agente _had been standing in the doorway, chastising _Blanco, _that he should stop sleeping with whores, and Rico made a joke about being the only whore _Blanco _was sleeping with.

_Are there others? _

Rico couldn't say why he'd made the joke other than he saw straightness dripping off Juarez, the man clearly assuming _Blanco _only fucked women, and he thought it would be funny to counter the idea. Mostly, he thought _Blanco _would enjoy it. See, he hadn't moved off the floor. He just lay there, knees up, jeans only, that delicious _hair _showing above the waistline of his jeans, eyeing the agent. He knew very well Rico was about to walk back in that room from a shower, fully naked with only a towel to cover up. Obviously, he didn't give a damn that the man in the door would know he fucked men, namely … Rico. So he made the joke.

He could still hear him laughing at the shock on the agent's face. Hard, full-throated from deep in his belly. He loved the revelation. Loved that Rico had exposed him.

_I love you. _

_Get the fuck away from me. _

Rico, expressionless, looked at Kenneth who smiled in his usual comforting way.

Juarez sat heavily in the chair next to Rico where the other agent had been sitting.

"First off," he said, clearing his throat. "I am so sorry we were not able to find you when you were first abducted. I promise you, I assure you, that this agency had used all available resources and technology at the time of our search."

Rico broke the gaze at that. What was there to say? He did offer a breathy, "_Gracias," _that had the slightest edge of bitterness to it.

"Do you prefer Spanish?" Juarez asked.

"No, I do not _prefer_ anything. I spoke English all the time _en La Habana."_

He didn't have to elaborate. He spoke English to _customers _since age six.

Another clearing of his throat by the agent.

"Alright then. I want to share with you, what the government is doing to help you get reacquainted with your home..._here_. And it's money. There's a fund and it's enough to get you an apartment and there's money for school or job training. For now, we want to put you in a safe house while we work on the child trafficking case you helped Todd Manning with. Is that okay?"

Rico didn't respond right away and Kenneth saw something drop, a falling.

"My mother… does not want me… with her?"

Kenneth couldn't bear that misunderstanding. "God, no, Rico, no. She fought him on this. She wants you with her but our psych, um, our counselors, think it's better for you to adjust independently. Too much pressure otherwise. Yeah? Understand?"

His voice had a desperate sound that made Rico hurt and he shook his head, shrugged. No, he didn't understand.

Kenneth gave the agent a look. This was too fucking much. "Benicio, I can give him all this information later. I think some… time...is needed."

Juarez chewed on his lip and nodded but clearly decided to offer more explanation. "The safe house is easily monitored, for us. We don't know how far Caro's people might reach into the United States, don't know how badly they may want… you. We'd like to keep you on our radar for a while. Just until we get a better lay of the land. You know?"

A bird slammed into the window right at that moment and Rico jumped, his heart racing, his breath quickened.

Kenneth grumbled, "You'd think they see a huge building. Stupid birds." He gritted his teeth. "_Can't_ _see what's right in front of them_." Another fuming look at the cop got ignored again.

_End this. _

Seeming to calm, Rico looked down. Stayed quiet.

The cop looked coolly at Rico, narrowing his eyes slightly. "As an aside, your name. You do have the option of retaining your birth name of _Enrico Juan Diaz _or changing it. Legally."

"I do?"

"Of course. You can be… whoever you want to be."

Rico chuffed softly, "Americans. So free."

The joke didn't pass Juarez. "We like to think we are," he said. "We try like hell to be free."

"You try. _Blanco _was not very free. He was not whoever he wanted to be."

Juarez now laughed, a boisterous loud laugh, "Manning may have had cuffs on him, his _freedom_ is certainly up for debate... but he sure as hell was _whoever_ the fuck he wanted to be, that son of a bitch. Never in my life have I worked with a guy THAT insistent on being HIMSELF."

Rico smiled, more to himself. He couldn't argue. He supposed it was true. Even his own end was a mad grasp at being himself.

_Retribution, Rico, retribution! _

Kenneth reached into his lap and squeezed his hand. "You got that right," he groused, "to a fault."

Juarez had some paperwork in his hand. "So… take these papers home, these are procedures on getting your money, and there's also a list of lawyers. They work with a non-profit org that helps people like you—"

"Like me? Whores?"

Juarez got very serious at that.

"No. I mean abducted people. You were trafficked, and you're not alone in that. You didn't prostitute yourself at age six, they enslaved you. And I'll argue forever, Rico, that at no point, based on what you have said, that you consented to any act against you even those acts past eighteen. Your _work… _was forced on you by Manuel Caro. From the beginning to the end. This organization works with men and women whose lives were disrupted by being in captivity for a very long time. Your experience is… _tan traumática—_"

Rico had it. He shot to his feet, picking up the papers and shaking them in the face of Juarez.

"I am not broken! I am not in trauma! I chose my life! Then and now! I do not need these people! I do not need a _counselor_! Do YOU understand?! Do you?! Do you?!"

"You did not choose this. Caro chose it for you. Everything you are…is because of Caro."

That infuriated him even more and Kenneth got really scared now. Fucking cops, always on their hunt. He got up and put his hand on Rico's shoulder, purring, "Hey, Rico…come on…hey, hey…"

But Rico slapped his hand away, a train that couldn't be stopped now.

"Listen to me, _agente, _he let me go at 14. From then on I did what I wanted! Men just like you, cried for me to love them, they were mine to do with as I pleased. Caro might have violated me early on, but after, he too was mine to _control_, to rule over, he too cried for me to love him, all the way to the END!"

"How much ruling… Rico? Enough to let him escape? Maybe?" Juarez got to his feet and leaned in. "Where is Caro? Where is he? What _end _are you talking about?"

Rico's eyes lit up at that, a whole lot of heat there. He huffed and stared at the husky cop. His whole body trembled that could have been rage or something else entirely.

Juarez did not miss any of it.

"It's pretty typical, Rico, to say everything you're saying. Typical of victims like you. It's control you crave because you had none. It's exactly why Manning, _Blanco… _did the things he did. He was desperate for control because _control _had been taken from him at so young an age. Just like you. It made him a criminal. A killer maybe. Are you a killer… Rico? Like _Blanco…_ or a lover...giving Caro the final taste of your control… by letting him go?"

Rico's mouth tightened into a dark slash, his body equally tight, eyes dark and haunting, _haunted, _and then... to the great shock of the old cop and Kenneth… Rico shoved the thick man backwards, Juarez toppling over the chair behind him, having to grab the table to stop himself from completely falling over. The hit was so hard, the wind got knocked out of him, making him grunt like a quarterback getting sacked.

Rico yelled wordlessly, a loud roar, his mouth open and tears flying out of those dark pools, a sound that almost didn't sound human. No, no, it was… animal-like, agonizing.

Kenneth grabbed Rico at that, arms around his body, his chest, the man fighting him, the strength of him so far beyond what he looked like, muscles that rivaled Todd's, iron-like, his own kind of power, Jesus, too much, too much...

"Baby, come on, come on," Kenneth begged.

But there was no stopping him from _being himself. _Rico pointed his finger at Juarez and yelled, "I am not a victim! I am not! I chose my life! I did! Caro was MY victim! Mine!"

"Okay, okay," Kenneth begged again, not knowing how far he could go, the match between Todd and Rico now horrifyingly clear. The unknown that was Rico in the stratosphere now.

"It's okay…"

"It is not okay!"

Rico's voice finally cracked and he huffed like a bull and then whimpered… a terrible sound of absolute emptiness, the very brokenness he denied.

"Let me go! Let me go… let me go.. enough enough enough! ENOUGH! Please ENOUGH!"

"I will, I promise… just…_calmate… mí amigo, mí hermano. _It's gonna be okay… Jesus Christ… oh come on, baby…"

And that's when he dropped in Kenneth's arms, crying soulfully, wailing almost, a deep wounded noise that carried out of the room. Over and over be cried, "Enough enough enough…"

_Enough. _

* * *

Down the hall, Patricia Diaz heard her child.

She'd been waiting since nine that morning and the clock now read eleven. They told her to come at noon but she could not stand to be away from him. She knew he was in a conference room telling a story. They told her that she may not see him today.

_I will wait here. You have to put me in jail to keep me away. You tell him I am here. I will come every day until he is ready to see me. _

She had long black hair and was only fifty years old, her face smooth and fine, her skin a creamy mocha, flawless. Her features were delicate, her body that of a ballerina. She danced in high school and college and never stopped even though she no longer performed for anyone. Even though her dances were only done in grief.

She had her children young, only 20 when she had Lucas and 24 when she had Enrico. She died, her whole soul did, when her little one was taken. He'd been three years old and they had been in the park and he was playing with the other children and she turned for just a moment, just a second to drink a soda she'd gotten at the _bodega, _an orange _Fanta _she wasn't supposed to drink because it was not healthy but she and Enrico loved it so she bought two bottles.

A moment to swallow the cold sugary drink and he was gone.

She did not have a Spanish accent because like her husband, Samuel, and both her boys, Lucas and Enrico, she had been born in New York, in a small neighborhood in Brooklyn where many Cuban families lived. She learned English from birth, studied all in English, and always spoke it at home. She spoke Spanish too but not like English because her mother insisted she speak it perfectly to get ahead in life.

_No accent! Nobody gets rich in America who has a Spanish accent!_

But she adored Spanish and when Enrico was born… she made a point by then… to teach him both English and Spanish.

And now, when she heard him… he cried in no language. His agony had no language.

"Please let me see him! Please!"

The agent, Penelope, rushed to her side, seeing the distress, hearing it from the other room. "I'm so sorry Mrs. Diaz…it has to be at his discretion."

"He needs me," she said quietly.

"He may not know that yet."

She put her fingers to her lips and sat. "That is him."

The agent nodded. "He's been through a lot and there is a lot to process and the shock of New York… he only knows Havana."

"Then you did this wrong! I should have gone to him!" She cried out a little because he did. "Please…"

"I'm so sorry. And yes, you going to him would have been preferred but as we told you last week, the criminal aspect prevented that. He had to leave Cuba for his own safety."

The sound still reached her and she choked on the pain of it. She had not heard him since he was only three but his pain had no age. She knew that sound in her heart. She'd waited for recognition for almost twenty-four years. And now… here it was… he was only yards away from her.

She wrapped her arms around her body and rocked as if he was in her arms and she could soothe his tears.

"Mama is here, my son, I have you now, _mí bebé._.."

Penelope sat next to her, choosing to wait with her. But not before sending word with another agent that Mrs. Diaz waited and that she would not leave until she heard Rico wanted her to leave.

* * *

Rico had finally calmed the rage, but now he sat at the table with his head down on folded arms. He cried and cried, the word _enough_ coming out over and over.

Juarez did not leave. He was not unmoved.

He had planned to ambush the kid, hoping Rico would let information on Caro slip. He'd been too cool about it back in Havana, he'd denied seeing Caro at all. But there was something in that innocent gaze that struck Juarez as… well… pointedly NOT innocent. Now, though, Juarez got a full picture of the complexity of Rico Macias.

There was a crazy possibility that he might have killed Caro, or let him go, or maybe he never actually did see him. He almost laughed. All possibilities possible. But… he saw how much had been taken from this kid, he knew of those horrific films, and it was a hard ask to think of taking more from him. No, he was going to leave the _truth _to Kenneth.

Another agent came in and whispered to Juarez the message from Mrs. Diaz. He told Kenneth who nodded.

When Rico quieted at last, he stayed in that child-like pose for another fifteen minutes or so, his head down on folded arms. His brown-black hair fell over his arms, stringy with sweat. The plum-colored tee-shirt he wore was equally as damp. He'd hooked his booted-feet around the legs of the leather chair.

He finally straightened up. He sniffled, trying to be as still as the sentinels in the plaza.

_Do not cry, beautiful boy. If you cry, the customers will be sad. And I will be sad. Let me see a smile. Let me see your teeth. Yes! Like that! Look at that smile!_

He pulled the papers to him and read through them.

"My name is _Rico Macias_," he said. "I want to change my name to that."

"That's fine," Juarez said. "That's your name then. You can do it yourself in court. Forms are pretty easily available. Or you can get a lawyer."

"Thank you."

"Will you stay in the safe house?"

Dark eyes hit Kenneth. "I… uh… would like… you to stay too?"

"You want me to go with you to the safe house?"

Rico nodded.

"Um… sure. Yes, of course. I'm pretty sure that'll be fine?"

Juarez nodded, "Of course."

Even better than be hoped. Kenneth wasn't an agent in the traditional way. He'd been commandeered and worked more like a consultant. Juarez admitted to himself… the clearly intimate connection he and Rico shared could be helpful in getting Rico to talk. Spies had used sex forever as a way to get information. Maybe that's the route they'd go.

"Penelope will get you moved in right away. Two months you'll be there at the most. We'll get you funds to start establishing yourself. School, training, whatever. You don't have to hide or anything. Just start living your life. Figuring it out. Ken… I'll get someone to help get your personal belongings over to the house, to stay a while."

Quietly, Rico then said… "I want to see my mother. Today. Now."

"A counselor—" Kenneth started to say.

"No counselor. Only me and my mother."

"Okay. Okay."

_Okay. _

**To be continued…**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

He knew she walked into the conference room because he smelled the lightest, barest scent of perfume, a bouquet of flowers and trees and American comfort. Everyone had left, leaving Rico alone to gaze into the foggy New York City horizon. He sat at the table unable to turn in her direction. She hesitated with an intake of air and then a slow release.

"_Enrico_?"

Flashes whipped through him at the sound of her velvety voice; dark hair, a bursting laugh, a kiss on his cheek, a loving gaze. All his life he had imagined a motherly spirit that swam alongside his nightmares, hovered above him as he got fucked and as he did the same to others, as he threw up from too much drink and sat around a TV with his whore-friends, as he hung on the side of an apartment building and sprayed red his dancing star. More recently, the imagined goddess hugged him from behind as he wrapped protective arms around _su León. _

He thought he had a mother in the Macias matriarch; she was all he knew. But this other magical being… well, she lived in his dreams.

"New York City has too many people. No room for _la gente _to breathe," he said.

"Easy for a small boy to disappear. In seconds."

Patricia Diaz sat at the table, a careful, delicate placement of her body into the leather chair. Rico thought of the glass animals in the cupboard at the Macias home. Her voice cracked like a leg breaking off a glass zebra.

"I never stopped looking for you," she said.

He had wondered if she would cry, if she would grab him the way actors did in _telenovellas_. He now looked at her, and it was he who wanted to cry. She had control, dignity. She didn't waver at all from how hard she held him with her dark eyes he recognized as matching his own.

"I did not know," he croaked. "My family… the Macias family… never told me. I thought—." He couldn't finish.

She reached out a hand and caressed his cheek, then touching his head, searching his hair, fingers sliding along his scalp, and it was then that she cried. Quiet tears rolled along her cheeks, lips lifted from a smile. "You feel the same, your round head, your hair like silk—"

She pulled her hand back and covered her mouth, trying to manage her emotions. "_Mí bebé," _she said.

He leaned forward into her and she gasped softly as she pressed her mouth onto his head, round as she remembered. Slowly she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and wept with an ache of relief at having found him… and wrecking sorrow, an agony of forever-lost time. No, her baby was gone, and in his place was a man she knew only as a stranger. Hard-muscled and near-black pools for eyes. He did not melt into her so much as he fell, all his strength vanishing, all his fight.

"It has been a long road here, _amor," _she whispered. "Let me carry you until you can walk."

He wished he was a child again, wished she _could _carry him. A sorrow burst inside of him like nothing he'd ever known. Such profound loss that set him adrift, a boat without mooring. His mother smoothed his hair as he lay quietly, his body bent over, his head pressed against her chest.

She told him all she knew of him. What a good baby he'd been, how he'd sleep all night early on, how he walked early, talked early. She said he made her laugh with silly faces that he knew so early on were _funny_. "How did you know that talking with one eye shut and mouth twisted was something meant to make us laugh, that it was _humorous? _You were less than two! You were so beautiful. So perfect. You were an angel sent to me when I needed you most."

In Spanish, he asked, "_Why?" _He asked without looking up, without pulling away from her.

"Because I had made a decision to stay married, to choose love over my career as a dancer. It was a hard decision but you made it worthwhile. I hadn't planned on having you. I was happy with your older brother as an only child and planned on returning to the dance company but then… there you were. Unexpected. But not unwanted. I adored you. I was… happy."

They remained in quiet for a long while, talking beyond their need. He pulled himself up at last. To look at her.

_Patricia. _

He wanted to tell her his own life but the words caught in his throat. Shame paralyzed him. What would he begin with? His becoming a whore at six? The years he worked for Manuel Caro then Gavín? The whores who loved him… his specialty of using the scarf… his further specialty of humiliating men, men who paid for such humiliation. And then… what about the deaths of those children in the films… and Hilario who he thought was his brother? Hilario, he suddenly realized, needed to be added to the list of children he remembered through the years, that Kenneth encouraged him to create. Who was _he? _ Who was Hilario stolen from?

Tears welled at the impossibility of talking and he felt wetness rolling down his cheeks. How could he ever explain what he had become? What he had been through?

Patricia seemed to sense his thoughts. "There is only this day, and every day, moving forward," she said as she caressed his cheek. "I will never ask what you don't want to give. My home is yours. I have a room that's ready for you. But you're an adult, a man, so I understand that you might want to live apart." She laughed quietly at that, sadly, wiping the tears from her own face. "I see a man but I feel in my heart, a child who needs his room. Close to me. So I can hold you when you cry, when you scrape your knees."

That wounded him. Such... loss.

"I am told we should move slowly," he said, "_como los tortugas_. I am to stay in a safe house … for a while."

"I know. I'm not a turtle though; I want you with me. But I also want you safe. That matters more. I need to know you're as safe as you can be."

At that, Patricia spent the next hour sharing pictures of the family, telling him her own story of growing up in New York, her years as a dancer, her retirement… she skipped ahead past when he was taken. She told him of his brother and his young family. A pretty daughter named Mia. They shared their Spanish language differences. Sayings. Slang words.

By the time Kenneth returned, Patricia and Rico were engaged in a tender, easy, back and forth discussion. He… appeared… better. In a gentle lull. Technical matters were then dealt with, a timeline, and finally, the social worker arrived, Lourdes, and she said, _okay, this was a good meeting. The two of you should take time to reflect and tomorrow, meet again. If Rico wants it._

The look on Patricia's face was pure heartbreak at having to separate but Rico smiled at her and said, _tomorrow I will show you my artwork. _He hadn't expected to say that, it had just come out of his mouth. He hugged her tightly and Patricia was shaking with reluctance to leave but she respected the process intensely and finally tore away from him, deciding, yes, it's better? She didn't think so but was willing and so she agreed.

In Spanish, she said, "_Tomorrow, I will see the artist." _So she left, reluctantly, tearfully. But not before a final assurance. "_Just call me if you need me. Here is my cell phone number. I am here. I am your mother. I never stopped being your mother. I am… forever yours."_

He watched as she walked away, watched her liquid steps, her last turn to glance at him. Just as she disappeared through the door, he reached for Kenneth's hand and held it… like a child might hold a parent's hand.

* * *

The safe house was to be ready in three days. Kenneth and Rico walked back to the hotel after picking up deli sandwiches. Rico was deathly silent, haunted eyes holding more pain than Kenneth thought possible - he already had such sadness buried there. How was there room for more?

They ate in that same heavy quiet in the room because Rico preferred it that way. Kenneth had offered to eat at a restaurant or to visit a tourist trap but Rico refused. Of course. He did not have the motivation to do anything but mourn...everything. The sun had set on New York City when they finished eating and the sun rising in the morning seemed an empty prospect.

For what, Rico thought, as he climbed into bed. He'd showered by then, moved to sleepiness by a strong ale Kenneth had picked up. Under the covers, he closed his eyes, willing sleep to rescue him. The room was darkened, the only light coming from Kenneth's laptop.

He sat at the table, working on a report about Havana, typing away. He wore his glasses and they reflected the color off the screen. Rico felt bad for being so uncommunicative but Kenneth was kind in his acceptance of it. He'd encouraged that Rico talk to a counselor. Lourdes had offered one, rather insisted on it, but he didn't want to.

_But a counselor can help, _Lourdes had promised._. _

Rico laughed at the idea, thinking far back to _Blanco_ who said talking would help ease the suffering of being an abuse survivor, that maybe Rico should tell about Manuel Caro… but then when Rico asked if talking helped _him, _if talking helped _Blanco, _his lion couldn't really answer, preferring to lose himself in the sex they had, cursing his usual, _fuck._ Rico's laugh neared a hysterical giggle, a bouncing noise breaking up the darkness.

Kenneth glanced up, smiling. "What's so funny?"

Rico sat up on his elbows. "_Blanco _said one time talking about my past would help me."

"And that's funny... because?"

A pause. More soft laughter. "Because _Blanco_ said talking helped. _Todd Manning_ told me to talk to a counselor."

Now Kenneth chuckled. "Okay. Yeah. That IS funny." He then got serious. "It does help though. I think… talking about it reduces the scary quality of… things?"

A sigh. "I cannot tell my mother my history."

"You don't have to. But you can tell a counselor, a therapist. I mean, even THIS inability to tell her is something you can talk about. There's-"

"You do not understand."

"I'm sorry… tell me. Explain."

"Do you think he was in pain when he died?"

Kenneth sighed and closed the laptop, the conversation taking a left turn. The room became completely dark other than city light breaking through the curtains. He moved to his bed and could see Rico's face reflected in the yellowish neon.

"I don't know. I think it was fast. Maybe seconds… of hurt, then nothing."

Rico was quiet again. He rolled over, away from Kenneth.

Kenneth got up after a few minutes and showered too, brushed his teeth, made mental plans for getting his belongings over to the safe house. When he got into the other bed, he found himself sleeping quickly. He dreamed forgettable dreams… drifting in prison… fighting off the Nazis that had claimed him... then running the field, running, running until he couldn't breathe.

A noise woke him up, a thump of some sort. He lay there, thinking it was nothing but hotel noise, hotel business. He glanced at the drapes and saw it was still the thick of night. When he glanced at Rico's bed, he saw it empty. He sniffed and sat up, scratched his bare chest. Bathroom maybe. He got up to check it. The door was shut but there was no light peeking out from the crack below.

He rapped lightly, "Rico? You in there?"

No answer.

He then pulled open the door and to his shock, a limp Rico fell over at his feet, completely unconscious. "Shit! Hey, man!"

Kenneth dropped to his knees and shook Rico to no avail and so Kenneth grabbed him and pulled him straight, lying him flat on the floor. He slammed the light on and got down again and that's when he noticed the scarf around his neck, tight to his skin. In seconds he took in the fact that Rico was fully nude and had the telltale sign of completed masturbation on his belly. _Jesus… _Kenneth tore the scarf off and listened shakily for signs of breathing… and there was NOTHING. No breaths, no pulse at his throat.

"Oh FUCK!"

Kenneth immediately tipped Rico's head back and blew strong breaths into him. He stepped back and pressed down hard on his chest with both hands, remembering his old CPR training from when he first got recruited into the FBI.

"Come on, kid… come on!"

And all of a sudden there it was-Rico gasped once and then again… and soon Kenneth could see his chest gently rising and falling. "Hey, hey! Wake up! Macias!" He slapped his cheek, hard, slapped him again when he wouldn't respond and then… huffed in relief when Rico's eyes flickered open and he gazed at him, swatting at Kenneth who collapsed back on his ass.

"Oh my GOD, Rico… Jesus… you scared the hell out of me! You weren't breathing! Your… heart…!"

Rico licked his lips at the yelling and all of a sudden, awareness flooded him. He hissed, sat up, and immediately touched his neck… and then glanced down at his naked body. He saw the scarf at his side and used it to clean himself. He silently cursed himself. No, no, didn't plan on this. The scarf must not have released like it was supposed to. Too tight maybe... or the wrong knot.

Kenneth was breathing hard and instead of finding fury on the man's face, Rico saw he was afraid, his features draped in thick worry…

"I am sorry," Rico said softly, continuing the cleaning up even though he was already wiped free of the evidence. "I… I…"

"Why? Do you want to die? Is this… suicide? Do I need to call someone?"

Rico glanced around and then stood up, and… and… it was this magical unfurling of a flower, Kenneth watching from the floor, a revelation of perhaps the most beautiful man he had ever seen in his life. Rico… beautiful Rico… with a perfectly creamy brown sculpted body, an unmissable, gorgeous cock hanging, … every part of him cut, defined, slender… the strength unquestionable. He was simply… _magnificent_. Kenneth could hardly breathe at such beauty. Could hardly breathe that such perfection could so easily be ended.

He then, too, stood up and kept staring at Rico, begging silently for him to just talk.

"Why?" he repeated.

"It feels good, McNair. It… feels good. When the air stops, and I… finish… I am flying." He smiled sadly and repeated his apology. "I did not mean to frighten you."

"So… not suicide."

"No."

"But you could die, you have to know that. If hadn't come in… you would be dead. Do you understand? DO YOU?!"

Rico fiddled with the scarf, eyes down, flinching at the upset from Kenneth. How could he explain what he did not understand himself? _Blanco _hated that he did this, that he needed this. And yet when he helped, when _Blanco _squeezed his throat with his iron-like hand, he too would come at the thrill of it, the two bursting with sheer agonized excitement, together, one man dying, the other killing him. Rico was going to stop, he swore _a su león_ that he would not do it anymore, but didn't that promise die when _Blanco _threw him away? When _Blanco _decided to die in the bombing?

When he glanced at Ken, he shrugged. "Who would care?"

Kenneth got visibly inflamed but Rico put his fingers to the man's lips. "Shhh…, do not argue. You do not live my life. You do not _know."_

He walked back to the bed and climbed in. Kenneth flipped the light off. Returned to his bed.

And sat up. Unable to sleep a wink. He couldn't.

_Jesus… this kid nearly died. _

_In the blink… of an eye._

_His mother… newly found… would have been mourning all over again._

And at that moment, he vowed, he was not going to leave Rico's side until he knew he was going to survive.

**To be continued...**


	7. Chapter 7

**Sleepless City**

**Chapter 7**

_You're coming with me._

_As what, león?_

_As my friend… as someone... as someone I love. I don't mean I'm gonna walk you down a fuckin' aisle… what I mean is… you are important. You are worth taking risks for… you help me see things I never saw before, never felt…you are… fucking… beautiful inside and strong outside and… you are worth being on this planet. You are not something to throw away. You talk about me being a lion? No, Rico… you are the goddamn lion. You are fucking majestic._

After a dinner of local Chinese food, Rico walked the darkened neighborhood surrounding the safe house, _Blanco's _words banging around in his head, the loss of him roiling in his belly. He had his sketchbook with him. He'd shared a little of his art with Patricia, his mother. They met today as they had every day since his arrival a week ago and she was touched and moved and couldn't stop looking at him. She'd glanced at the drawings in the FBI conference room, her perfectly manicured fingernails caressing the ink drawings… because she resisted touching him_. _Earlier, they met with a therapist who had a laid out an entire plan of getting to know each other and she said that Patricia would wait for affection, that his permission had to come first…

He was like the glass figures he remembered in the cabinet back home. So fragile, so easy to break… so desirous of being broken.

_I want to feel like I'm dying, Blanco, like you. _

Home, he thought… he meant, back in _La Habana. _He had no home. He almost laughed because how many times had he heard that angry refrain, _I have no home, mari!_

"You do not need my permission to touch me," he had said quietly in that conference room which touched off a ten-minute talk by the counselor on the importance of consent and boundaries which he turned out, focusing on counting the overhead lights, plastic bubbly coverings of light strips, unlike anything he'd ever seen in his life. Maybe in school. He spent some years there, as a child. Manuel Caro had taken over all schooling when he turned eight.

_May I hug you, mí amorcito?_

His own mother shouldn't have to ask and yet she did.

"Hey… you there?"

He turned to Ken, his constant companion these days. Nodded, "I am sorry. I am in my head a lot."

"It's ok, I just wanted to know if you saw that ad for the art gallery I left for you."

Rico had to quickly run down their last few days, the fast move out of the hotel, the shopping for necessities and clothes and new shoes, the daily trips across the water to Manhattan for daily briefings, visits with Patricia and the therapist, Valencia or Victoria or… Spanish-speaking, Puerto Rican… Spanish like Téa Delgado's… not as beautiful, not as delicate, as her.

_We can be something, the three of us, he'd know love like never before._

He put her out of his head like empty bottles of milk outside a door.

The gallery, an advertisement. "Yes," he said though he didn't remember any such ad, so many papers on the dining table for four, the old style Formica top that Ken laughed at though it was fine, nothing funny about something that works.

"It's here...look."

He followed Ken's gaze to a glass storefront and took in the various canvases, the splashes of color, the swirling lines, the horizons of sunsets. Rico didn't hide his low judgment of the place. The moment he spotted a price tag on one of the pieces, he mentally crossed this place off the list of places to revisit. He looked at Ken who appeared crestfallen at Rico's obvious uninterest.

"Thank you," he said. "I am—"

He stopped abruptly, something catching his eye across the street. A drag queen walked along the quiet street, bright red sequined gown, the edges dragging along, her head up and her large tower-like wig lopsided, walking determinedly, her hand in a fist. A long-strapped purse slammed on her hip as she headed forward, combat boots hitting the sidewalk.

Rico grinned at the sight, for the first time showing a real smile, the smile brightening his face. He distractedly pointed back at the paintings, eyes still on the force in the Red Dress, "They are… are… flat, they have no soul, they are souvenirs, I want to see her!"

He couldn't take his eyes off the furious Red Dress and he stepped off the curb, clearly to cross the street after her, but Ken yelped and had to jump two, three, steps to grab the bike bag, to yank Rico back because a taxi would have hit him.

"You gotta watch the cars, man!"

Rico just looked at him, surprised, pulling out of the grip and _now _heading across the street, sprinting to chase the Red Dress because she was his old life, she was recognizable, because she would have been someone he danced with and laughed with and made fun of johns with and dreamed dreams with. Catch her and he would catch his old life again, he'd find himself again.

Ken had to run to keep up. "Rico! Slow down!"

Rico kept on with his sprint, eyes scanning the spaces in between the buildings, hunting for the Red Dress. He saw her and ran again only to lose her again then more scanning, turning left then seeing the flash again and more sprinting, right, left, right, left, flashes again and again until he knew he had lost Ken way back and he giggled, a slight hysterical giggle, at the reality that he wasn't actually sure of where their apartment was nor where he was now but he knew where the Red Dress was, mere yards ahead and she was still on a march to go wherever she was going but it had to be someplace good, a place he'd know because those places existed in every community around the world. Just follow the drag queen because they'll lead you home, they'll lead you to a place where you'll be loved and understood and accepted because the queens were fierce in their lives, fiercely living no matter what, and Rico kept after her, running, running, breathless in his chase.

He kept following until he came upon an alley and he slammed to a halt.

The Red Dress was kicking at a closed door and yelling a storm, "You think you can cheat me that way?! You think that?! Well you can't!"

_Kick kick kick…_

But that wasn't what held his attention. It was the color all around him, reds, blues, purples, greens, yellows, oranges, silvers, golds… and black lines through that seemed to be the endless skeleton to the mass.

Murals, graffiti, surrounded him. This wasn't kid stuff, or gang stuff, but statements and declarations and agony and ecstasy and the blood of Jesucristo and the blood of his mother and food and water and air and mountains and lakes and dresses and shoes and birth and death and everything else that could be said to be _life_. He could hardly breathe for the beauty all over. His heart pounded with desperate want and love and sorrow for everything he lost the day he met Pedro Moreno, the day Gavín called him downstairs. _Macias! You have a job, go with this man. _He found himself standing there, crying with the impact of the lines and shades and color.

What was _this?_

God, god, he had lost everything that day, didn't he?

_Let go of me, please… let go..._

_I'm not gonna… 'cause... I love you, okay? I don't say that shit every day, yeah? And I kinda think…I- I- kinda think you're trying to say you love me back… yeah? Is that what's happening here? Rico? Huh? Is that it?_

He lost everything that day in Havana.

Red Dress caught his attention again though and she was a sight in all her righteous indignation, Rico shuddering with repressed affection for someone he didn't know, had never met… she was just a marker. Another nocturnal human being who lived a bright life at _night_.

The queen soon ran out of steam and gave the door a final kick.

"Fuck you, Orlando! Don't come to me no more!"

She turned on the heels of her black boots and headed back towards Rico who rubbed hard to erase the tears, the queen suddenly noticing him, catching his eye and smiling. She patted her cheeks, pinching her cheeks and stopped right at Rico. Her brown skin had blushed with the pinches and her smile shifted to an embarrassed side grin, "I have made quite a spectacle of myself, haven't I?"

Rico smiled and shook his head, his eyes still wet, his face a world of emotion, and the Queen saw it all, of course she did.

"Oh baby, oh honey, wha's the matter?"

Laughing through tears erupting anew, he choked out a few words, "I am sorry… I am new here and you are the only familiar I have seen—"

The queen eyed Rico again, giving him an up and down, seeing his obviously new black denim pants and new sneakers and new tee-shirt that hugged his narrow body. She smiled appreciatively, empathetically. "I like that," she said. "I am glad to be that. You staying nearby? What's yo' name?"

"I'm… uh…." His tongue got twisted… _Enrico? Rico? Macias? Diaz? _He had insisted on keeping the same name, Rico Macias, but the feel of _Blanco _all over him, asking for his brothers' names, Macias, Macias…_tell me their names_, names of men who were never his brothers, of a mother who was never his mother... he didn't know why he'd want that name...

"I go by Zandra," Red Dress interrupted, "and I live not too far in a walkup, six flights of rickety stairs up, and there is a mouse that always greets me at the very top of that sixth flight and wouldn't you know, I actually like that little fucker!"

Rico laughed a little and sniffled and looked away, that sadness returning.

"I am Rico," he finally said.

"Well, Rico, I should explain I suppose since I made such a fuss. This guy…_ Orlando_— he wishes he looked like Orlando Bloom, but honey, he don't look anything like that elfin doll—anyway he cheated me out of a gig. I was booked to be the entertainment at a party—I sing and I'm very good I might add—but he gave it away to someone else and it is SO wrong to do a thing like that to a working girl. That IS my only income, you sonofabitch!"

The last line was yelled and directed at the door she had just been kicking and it was funny that she'd lose the more feminine quality when she yelled. Her voice dropped, absolutely.

Zandra smiled in a mock-shy way, "Oh my, I am flustered…"

Rico glanced around and then looked at Zandra again, "What is this place?"

She turned and took in the painted walls, an admiring look on her face, "This is called the Hall of Lessons. All our local street artists come here and practice their work before heading out for finals."

Looking down, Rico realized the asphalt was covered too, chalk drawings everywhere.

"Waah," he exclaimed, hopping to the right, as if he could escape ruination, hopping until he wasn't standing on someone's life's work.

Zandra laughed, delighted at Rico's great respect. "You must be an artist, too?" She walked towards him, and the two leaned on a closed door, unpainted.

"I draw," he said, eyes up on the higher works, the stuff one needed to climb up to get.

They both looked at the madness, the frenetic art. "You should come here later tonight. This place doesn't wake up until midnight or so." She looked at a pocket watch she wore on a chain. "Yup, only 8:00–definitely too early. They're probably all still sleeping. All the major street artists started here… "

They grew quiet and continued their mutual study of the Hall. Rico wanted to slide down the door and just stay here, be a hermit here. He could live in this little doorway the rest of his life, surrounded by paints, colors, the arguments of artists, the competition, the resistance of them. God. He wouldn't be alone.

Zandra reached for his hand and held it and he looked at where their fingers joined.

"Where do you live?" she asked.

The question felt huge, so big and complicated. Who was the "you," in that? What place would he LIVE, truly be alive and free and dancing in his own red dress and combat boots?

"I don't know," he said.

Shyly, this time authentically shy, "Would you like to come to my place? I'd love to have you. We can get some boba tea? Listen to jazz. I just bought a record player and I got some albums and everything. I'll get out of my clothes, get dressed in my comfy stuff. Whatcha say?"

Her offer moved him, and he couldn't say why, and he nodded, tears threatening to fall. He felt like he was with a sister or a friend though he didn't know her. He thought he should return to Ken, knowing he'd be frantic, but his excuse was real. He didn't know where that safe house was. Hell, he didn't even know where they were right now. He didn't have a cell phone. That was for tomorrow. He didn't even have the phone number for the safe house.

He looked at Zandra and nodded, "Yes. I would love to join you for a boba tea and meet that mouse at the top of your stairs."

The Red Dress Queen smiled and wrinkled her nose and shrugged excitedly, saying, "Ohh let's go then! I'll introduce you to my favorite tea lounge, and to my neighborhood and my stair-mouse and then at midnight we'll come back."

"Yes, please, yes."

The two then walked the rest of the alley and took a right turn. The moon was up now and the night had just begun.

**To be continued….**


	8. Chapter 8

**Sleepless City**

**Chapter 8**

"THIS is…," Rico began to say from the purple velvet sofa chair in Zandra's apartment as he gently chewed the sweet tapioca ball from the boba milk tea. Brow knitted, his mouth twisted and shifted with the new experience. He couldn't seem to find the best word to describe what he was tasting so Zandra filled in the blank.

"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?"

They'd picked up the teas from the Heavenly Lounge and Rico met all the regulars and then they made their way to the old walkup. And indeed, at the top of the sixth flight of stairs, a tiny brown mouse sniffed the air and ran off with a cracker bit Zandra pulled from her purse.

"I do not know what you said but boba is… very good!"

Zandra laughed at Rico's discovery and her own joke as she sat at her grand makeup table, wiping off the makeup that had adorned her, looking in the mirror, and carefully attacking her eye color. "Yes, isn't it positively amazing?"

"My god, yes, sweet and chewy and… almost as good as the deli."

"Well, the deli is a whole meal! Boba is the thing that gets you from lunch to dinner and then to the midnight snack then to breakfast… don't Havana have boba?"

"I have never had it if it is there. We like coffee. Coffee lounge, yes, boba no!"

More chuckles floated across the room.

The apartment was a studio with windows onto the alley below with a fire escape to sit on when the weather was decent and non-confrontational. Costumes hung all over the place along with more wigs and hats and bags. A crazy collection of shoes occupied an entire wall of shelves. Her street clothes though were in a closet and she was very modest it turned out. There was a bathroom and a kitchenette and Zandra said she had one of the only apartments with an actual kitchen. "A real stove!" she had crowed.

She changed just like she planned, changed behind a wooden screen of sorts, tall, fabric stretched and orange, giving just enough cover. She tossed the wig on her bed and emerged from behind the screen wearing a pair of black hugging pants, black ballet slippers, and a loose feathery blouse the color of summery red apples. She had turned like a model and Rico clapped at the transformation. Her hair was a close-cut Afro.

When she completed the removal of the makeup, she paused a moment before turning to Rico. She smiled, again, truly shy, modest, and Rico nodded an approval, his heart tugging. How many girls like her had he known over the years? Sometimes they appeared more like their male side without the makeup and sometimes they didn't like what they saw in the mirror.

"You are beautiful this way, too," he said.

"You sure have a lovely way of talking. How long you been here in New York?"

He shrugged. "A week I think." He swallowed hard and sipped the tea, no interest in talking about himself. He sighed and closed his eyes, smelling the lavender and dust and bananas and humidity. There was something of Havana here.

Zandra sat on her bed.

"I'm from right here in Brooklyn. My mom lives only a couple of subway stops away."

"Do you see her often?"

"I do! She makes the best southern biscuits! She was born in Georgia and came here to be a showgirl but that never happened."

"You have brothers? Sisters?"

"I do indeed. They don't understand me, we ain't close or nothin'. 'Course it's most likely because I'm the baby of the family and they jus' jealous 'cause my mama loves me somethin'' fierce." She then said softly, "I'm lucky. Not a lotta girls like me get that kinda love." She eyed Rico, biting her lip. Looking at him a little too deeply.

"You _are_ very lucky." He knew he radiated a kindred pain, a hurt she'd understand but he just didn't want to talk. It was so useless. Talk… could not fix anything. As _Blanco _thought.

She hopped up at that, "Oh my… my records! I forgot!" She got up and there on a dresser was the record player. She turned it on and then lifted the arm and settled it on the spinning vinyl and suddenly music filled the room, but it wasn't jazz, it was Lady Gaga and she screamed "Born this Way" and it was a mad anthem that was all about loving who you are that everyone in the clubs loved, even in Old Havana, that they often demanded from the DJs.

_The Lady Gaga! Play it! Play it!_

She danced in the little space twirling and waving her arms to get Rico to laugh, saying, "I knew you'd know this girl!" and he did laugh and then she called with her hands, _come on, come on, _and Rico got up and slowly he began to dance, moving with his partner…

Except he wasn't in the apartment as he swayed to the beats.

No, no, he wasn't in Brooklyn at all, but in Havana and Téa was his partner and they were trying to ignore the furious _Blanco _watching them, jealous maybe, confused definitely, walking an edge between life and death, between love and hate. Rico twirled and swung and swayed with his eyes closed because he wasn't anywhere near New York City, no, he was in the only place he knew as any kind of home and next to him were all his people, even Gavín with his ugly belly. And Téa didn't know yet but he was going to take her and _El Leon_ to Sylvia's _casa_ to make love, _las tres en la cama, _to save _Blanco's _life, a night like no other where there was no beginning and no end and three were one and he was part of something real, something forever, and _Blanco _breathed _I love you AND you, _high on the sex but not the sex, no, he was high on unexpected love, on the possibility of a life where one felt everything instead of being numb to everything and… and… Rico and Téa would know they'd done it, they'd saved him, Rico's plan worked.

They showed him… _everything. _

But that love had been too bright, too loud like Lady Gaga, shining and pulsing across the city, a heart that couldn't be hidden.

Drawing Manuel Caro to them.

To end them.

Before he knew it, Rico was on the floor in a heap and a stranger's arms were wrapped around him and she was squeezing him tight, "Oh baby, oh I am so sorry. Oh my Lord.. okay, okay."

He didn't know how long he cried in that sure grip, on his knees, head on the carpet, elbows down, hands at his face, but it was a long while. At points, he didn't think he'd ever stop crying. After the wracking sorrow, he gently uncurled himself, peeling away from sweet Zandra, and sniffled and shook his head as Lady Gaga sang something soft and soulful.

"I am sorry," he said.

"Homesick?"

_Not exactly._

"I do not have a home. I thought maybe one was coming… it did not happen."

Zandra sighed and nodded, "I know that feeling," she said. "When I first started dressing up my mother got worried really and in her effort to make a point, she kicked me out the house. I wandered my neighborhood 'cause I was too scared to go anywhere else but I had no PLACE to go. And for a little while, I had no home, I had no place in the world… and I am talking too much, I am so sorry."

Rico shrugged and gave a nod, perfectly fine for someone else's story to fill the space.

"Will I ever be not new here?"

She smiled, her own eyes wet with sympathetic tears, "Sure. Just takes time."

"I am not patient."

"Oh I know THAT feelin' fo' sho'. I'll put that jazz on…"

And she did and it was old and soft and didn't remind him much of anything.

He chuckled sadly, "I like the jazz."

"Yeah," she said. "It makes _me _think of a dusty wealthy club full of old white men and scotch drinks and you know, they're gonna love _me_!"

She stood up and pretended to introduce herself to that imagined benefactor and she had a whole conversation going and Rico found himself laughing and sort of forgetting _everything_ because he knew that kind of conversation. He sat back, resting on his hands until she collapsed at his side, giggling uncontrollably.

Rico smiled, a definite look of affection on his face, and Zandra blushed now, her brown skin turning just like when she'd pinched her cheeks. "Oh my," she said, "you sure are handsome."

"Thank you… but you are beautiful. You must have many people loving you. Many homes."

She grinned and reached up, caressing Rico's face delicately, butterfly touches, searching his face for more about him that he wasn't sharing. "I have a few people. But I ain't found the kind of thing I dream about. You? I bet you got all types falling over themselves. Lawdy, you're beautiful."

He repeated her words with his Spanish accent, his use of her words making her laugh, "I have a few people. I ain't found the thing I dream about."

"Why do I feel like I know you, Rico?"

That got him to fall back entirely, the two now staring up at Zandra's ceiling. "I felt I like I knew you the moment I saw you," he said. "It is why I followed you."

"You did?"

"Your dress was hard to miss. With the black boots."

She laughed. "I do make myself so visible."

Her words froze him. He had been the center of attention from the beginning, always. So much visibility in pictures, the films, the main commodity of Manuel Caro then of Gavín. That constant visibility was one reason he loved when he couldn't be seen, up high, marking the sides of buildings or under bridges or on walkways. He loved being a shadow, whispering truths in people's ears without them knowing where it came from.

_Libertad! _

Freedom.

_Los Cubanos_ needed to know it was in their power to make it happen, needed to know there were so many in their own city who were not free. Like him. Like those kids who never made it. Those who didn't survive Caro and his evil minions.

_Libertad!_

"Who are you, Rico?" Zandra asked.

"A star, one of a million in a night sky."

"Ain't we all."

A clock sung out and she grinned. "It's 11… want to hit the Hall?"

Rico smiled.

**To be continued...**


End file.
